


Regular Maintenance

by Stark



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Augmentations (Deus Ex), Body Image, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 03:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20867216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stark/pseuds/Stark
Summary: Maintenance, Sarif called it once. And then scolded Adam when he couldn’t quite stop himself from wincing.





	Regular Maintenance

There’s something wrong with the joint of his right elbow.

He tries to ignore it, at first. With all that’s going on, it’s not much of a priority. It doesn’t limit his movements. Doesn’t really hurt, either; when he tries to rotate it in certain ways there’s a strange sensation that resembles pain, but isn’t actually painful. A warning sign of sorts, maybe. That split second when a hand flinches away from fire, but without the burn that follows. (A natural hand, that is.) Megan would probably have a word for that.

It’s just a minor nuisance. In the past, he wouldn’t have bothered going to a doctor with something like that. Mom told him he took after his dad, who used to come home from work with bruised knuckles he couldn’t quite straighten, or a deep cut on his forehead, and ignored her urging him to let a doctor take a look at that.

“I’m gonna be fine,” Dad would say, annoyed, but accept the offered ice bag. “Stop fussing.”

And she would, or she wouldn’t and they’d argue, and the next morning Mom would place her cold, soft hand on Adam’s forehead, and announce he had a fever, and he was staying home. He never protested, happy to stay with her, excited when she told him they’d bake a cake, or paint together, or watch horror movies with the curtains drawn. 

Adam used to think it was just the standard uniformed machismo for his dad, the stubborn need to push oneself just a bit too far, or that he didn’t want to stretch their finances even thinner by missing work. After all he has learned, however, he thinks he understands his father’s reluctance for visiting hospitals better. He can’t blame him for that, either, even if he doesn’t get to share it.

It’s a strange thing, to become so reliant on others to function, when what’s left of his natural body is able to push through _everything_. He gets shot and poisoned, his ribs bruised and broken, but the cuts and wounds and burns just disappear, heal faster than possible — humanly possible, at least. It’s the contrast, he thinks, that bothers him. An invincible body and a delicate machine.

He needs to see Koller about this.

Still, he waits, trying to determine when the warning — of course there’s a warning — pops up. But it appears more and more often: when he reaches for a glass on the table behind him, closes the door while holding something heavy, puts too much weight on his arm. He examines the joint, feels it for dents or nicks, listens to the way the mechanism moves. There’s nothing, and the warning doesn’t give him much to work with, either. It reminds him of the oil pressure light in his parents’ old car — turning on and off randomly, more of an annoyance than a threat. 

Except that one didn’t pop up in his vision.

It drives the point home, he supposes. His body isn’t really a body anymore, and he can’t afford to wait for it to heal itself like he did in the past. He can’t put an ice bag on a bruise, favor the uninjured leg for a couple of days, just sleep it off and wake up feeling fine. Everything is permanent, scratches not fading into pale scars, torn pieces of polymer not growing back together. His body is repaired, not cured. Each spare part with a price tag on it. 

Maintenance, Sarif called it once. And then scolded Adam when he couldn’t quite stop himself from wincing.

“It’s just semantics, son,” he said. “Don’t get too hung up on it.”

And maybe he was right, and bodies were nothing but complicated machines, and there was no difference between doctors and mechanics. He understood all of that, and he wanted to nod along when Sarif accused the language of not catching up — yet, he insisted — to a new world, one where the definition of body changed every day, but that of humanity stayed the same. He really wanted to.

“And these things might change, too, we’re always working on new materials,” Sarif continued. “A year ago, limbs like yours weren’t possible. Who knows what we will achieve in the future.”

And Adam thought about himself then, strapped to an operating table again, and couldn’t hide the flinch, but thankfully, Sarif left this one without comment. 

He’s past flinching now, he thinks, the thought of having his parts replaced — of having parts — almost natural now. One day, he’ll be past the _almost_ as well. Until then, he disregards the warning with a shake of his head, sending it to the log full of records, and moves his right elbow: slowly, patiently, as if testing an old wound, making sure it still hurts.


End file.
